


A Textbook Shot

by WolfieOnAO3



Series: The Brewer's Dictionary of Short Stories [8]
Category: Raffles (TV 1977), Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Comedy, Competitiveness, Croquet, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gardens, History, Humor, M/M, Romantic Fluff, raffles being raffles, victorian garden games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:32:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23706172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfieOnAO3/pseuds/WolfieOnAO3
Summary: 'Oh, I don’t know,’ Raffles chimed in with one of his dazzling smiles. ‘I believe there is something to be said for the attractiveness of a healthy competitive streak in a person. Don’t you agree, Bunny?’Raffles and Bunny play a doubles croquet match, though winning the game doesn't seem to be high on anyone's agenda...For the Brewer's Prompt: Croquet
Relationships: Bunny Manders/A. J. Raffles
Series: The Brewer's Dictionary of Short Stories [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691002
Comments: 17
Kudos: 12





	A Textbook Shot

**Author's Note:**

> _Croquet_  
>  _The garden game probably takes its name from a French dialect variant of crochet, “little hook”, because the early croquet mallets were shaped like hockey sticks. It is probably descended from the earlier game of pell mell or Pall Mall and became popular in England from the 1850s._  
>  \- Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable

‘Oh, well played Mr Manders, well played! Absolutely beautiful shot. Textbook!’

‘Quite right, Miss Clifton! That really was a jolly good shot, Bunny. Well played, my boy,’ Raffles cheered me on from his corner of the court. The warm encouragement earned him a smack on the ankle from the croquet mallet of his own playing partner, the venerable, and exceptionally good-looking, Miss Helena Roehampton.

‘Arthur, _I_ am your partner, not _him_. You aren’t supposed to cheer for the opposition getting a good shot in. Your Mr Manders just knocked my ball a clear fourteen yards the wrong side of my next wicket!’

‘Yes,’ Raffles replied as I walked across the court to where my red ball had landed, the blaze of his admiring smile colouring my cheeks. ‘Yes, it was a _magnificent_ play, wasn’t it?’

Miss Roehampton aimed another thwack towards Raffles’ foot but missed as he deftly skipped over the swipe. She satisfied herself instead by shooting a murderous glare in my direction. The lady was evidently as competitive as she was beautiful.

The game was croquet. Myself and my partner, Miss Roehampton’s bosom friend, Miss Eliza Clifton, were up on our opponents by three wickets, with no sign of slowing down. I hasten to say that this lead in the score was entirely owing to the talents of Miss Clifton; although I had been having a rather good turn of luck on my last few shots. Neither Raffles nor myself had played the game before, and the rules when laid out before us turned out to be far more complicated than I had presumed from watching ladies and gentlemen playing happily together on sunny afternoons. One seemed to require a university education in the sport simply to fully understand what was going on, let alone to win. I had given up trying to get my head around the rules, and instead had placed myself and my play entirely in the hands of my knowledgeable and skilled playing partner. 

‘Don’t be such a sore loser, Helena,’ Miss Clifton called out from across the court with a sparkling laugh. ‘It really is most unbecoming, you know. Mr Manders is doing a wonderful job. And _you_ should be pleased simply to have such a charming opponent. You’ll never find a husband with such a temper. Isn’t that what your mother is always telling you?’

The look Miss Clifton received in reply intimated that yes, this _was precisely_ what Miss Roehampton’s mother was always telling her, and it was not advice well appreciated.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Raffles chimed in with one of his dazzling smiles. ‘I believe there is something to be said for the attractiveness of a healthy competitive streak in a person. Don’t you agree, Bunny?’

‘Yes, Mr Manders, what do you think?’ Miss Clifton asked, joining in with Raffles’ teasing, as she linked her arm through mine, gently but firmly bustling me over to a better position for my next shot. ‘Is competitiveness a trait to be admired, or criticised? I should dearly love to hear your opinion on the matter.’

I lined up my mallet under the guiding hand of Miss Clifton. ‘Well, it all comes down to moderation,’ I replied, attempting to sound considered and sagacious. ‘Too much competitive spirit and one can be driven to all manner of excesses. Not enough and one can lapse into apathy, or risk being trampled roughshod by more _up-and-at-em_ types. No, I should say that the ideal to be aimed for combines the drive and desire to better oneself that can be found in a competitive spirit, with the grace and sportsmanlike demeanor that is so often missing in those who take competition to its furthest extremes. Oh, damn and blast! I missed the wicket!’ I cursed and then coloured. ‘My apologies, please do excuse my language, ladies...’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that Mr Manders,’ Miss Clifton laughed. ‘I’ve heard worse. Mostly from Helena whenever we play at singles and I _thrash_ her!’

Raffles was soon once again at my elbow, inspecting the new positions of the balls. He gazed thoughtfully across the court in preparation for his own shot, which was quite emphatically to be taken _without_ the guiding hand of Miss Roehampton, much to her evident displeasure. I was rather pleased about that; as I saw it she was getting her just desserts for so quickly leaping to snatch up Raffles as a partner instead of myself.

‘A most magnanimous and balanced take on it, Bunny,’ Raffles said to me as he lined up his shot with the greatest of care. ‘A textbook description of the true sportsman if you ask me.’ He narrowed his eyes and turned all of his energy towards his play. He paid close attention to the position of his mallet and the relative positions of the balls in play, made his swing with precision force, and missed his mark entirely.

‘Good _god_!’ Miss Roehampton threw her arms in the air, clearly reaching her wits end with her disastrous partner. ‘You would think that a man as famously brilliant at cricket would be better at croquet than this! My seven year old nephew plays a better game than you! We’ll never win, what’s the point of playing at all. I am sure you are doing it on purpose.’ 

‘Ah, my dear Helena,’ Raffles cooed, all charm, shooting a surreptitious wink in my direction. ‘The nature of the game, of _all games_ is to sometimes win, and to sometimes lose. If one won every time, it would hardly be sporting now, would it? Where is the fun in always winning? Where is the excitement? To lose attentively to a worthy competitor can be a gift from the gods, a lesson in what you can do _next time._ The cost may be victory in the moment, but the greater reward, ah, yes, the _greater_ reward is seeing where you might improve in the future. Gaining the knowledge required to secure greater victories further down the road!’

‘I should rather win in the moment, if it is all the same to you, _Mr Raffles_. Now go on. You have one more turn, unless by some _miracle_ you manage to hit something or make a wicket.’

Raffles, of course, did not make a wicket, or score whatever was needed in order to take a further turn. He did, however, succeed in sending my red ball careening off deep into the shrubbery.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Bunny, that’s gone clear behind the lavender bush by the look of it.’

‘You’ll have to go and help him fetch it back out,’ Miss Roehampton snapped. ‘It’s good form.’

‘Is it, now? Well, I’m not one to show bad form. Off we hop then, Bunny. Let’s see if we can’t retrieve that ball of yours.’

‘It’s Eliza’s turn now, in any case,’ sighed Miss Roehampton, ‘so we shan’t need either of you any time soon. When _she_ gets her hand on the mallet it takes the will of the Gods themselves to keep her from her target... Do try not to trample the strawberry plants whilst you are looking. Daddy is most particular about those. Come on then, Lizzie. Let’s see what you’ve got!’

Once Raffles and I were safely shielded by the bushes and trees of the Roehampton’s lower garden, my friend pulled his silver cigarette case out from his blazer pocket and handed me a Sullivan’s.

‘I _knew_ you missed that shot on purpose!’ I cried as I took the offered cigarette. 

‘My dear little rabbit, I didn’t _miss_ anything. I hit exactly what I intended to.’

‘Which was my ball.’

‘And the back of that tidy little patch of hydrangea over yonder.’ 

‘I thought you said it went in the lavender bush?’

‘You thought I said that because I did say that.’

‘But, then why did--’

‘ _If_ the ball landed in that unwieldy _megafauna_ of a lavender plant, Bunny mine, it would take us a considerable amount of time to retrieve it. What with the bees, and the density of the… whatever a lavender plant has on it, leaves, flowers, and all that. I’d say it would take us a good ten minutes or so, at least, to search through that beast of a bush for your ball.’ As he spoke he strolled over to an explosion of neat little pink flowers, leaned down, and picked up my ball. He began tossing it over and under his arm. ‘More than enough time to get through a Sullivan’s each, don’t you think?’

He threw the ball to me, and as I scrambled to catch it he laughed and sat himself down beneath a pleasant looking little cherry tree, beckoning for me to come and join him.

'Don’t worry about your trousers, old chap. If you get 'em dirtied it will give a bit of _veracity_ to our story. I’ll say I sent you crawling into the undergrowth like the good little rabbit you are. You’ll be the hero of the hour. Then that pretty little Miss Clifton of yours will admire you even more than she already does. You want to watch out, Bunny, or you’ll find yourself engaged before the match is out.’

‘Raffles you are _incorrigible_ ,’ I chastised even as I stretched myself out on the grass beside him. 

Raffles rolled his shoulders appreciatively and stretched his long, lissome legs out in front of him with a contented sigh. ‘Mm. Peaceful little spot, eh Bunny? I could stay here all afternoon.’ He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the tree.

‘A.J., I can’t say I _blame_ you for wanting a break from Miss Roehampton, but lying like that wasn’t very sporting of you. And this hiding out in the bushes, well, it isn’t really in the spirit of the thing, is it?’

Raffles opened his eyes and looked down at me with an irresistibly roguish smile. ‘I’ll have you know I am quite fond of Miss Roehampton’s company. She has a fighting spirit worthy of Athena Promachos herself, and a temper and beauty to match.’ He took a few thoughtful drags before continuing. ‘You’ll find yourself wrong on the second count too, I’m afraid, Bunny. Losing an opponent’s ball in the shrubbery is as much a part of the game of croquet as running a hoop, continuation shots, and making a _rouquet_!’ He laughed. ‘Oh, don’t look at me like that. I never said I didn’t know how to play, did I?’

'You gave a very good impression of it, A.J.!’

‘If other people make assumptions, that is hardly my fault. Of course I know how to play croquet. The circles I move in you’d be hard pressed not to learn. It’s a popular game among young people with the gardens to play it in. Not so much as it used to be, but it has made something of a comeback lately. That it can be played by both ladies and gentlemen together plays no small part in that, I have no doubt.’ He winked at me, and my ears grew hot as realisation of what he meant slowly dawned on me. ‘As I said, Bunny, knocking an opponent’s ball off somewhere away from prying eyes is _very much_ in the spirit of the game. And I made a _textbook_ shot, if I do say so myself.’

I glanced back in the direction of the court, and then up at Raffles. ‘How long did you say we had?’

‘Only about two or three minutes left now, I’m afraid.’

 _‘Damn!_ ’

Raffles’ smile twisted as he bit his lip and shook his head at me. ‘Why, my sporting rabbit, which one of us is incorrigible _now_?’

I had just opened my mouth to reply when I was cut off by a shout from the croquet court.

‘Lizzie, look what you’ve done! It’s gone all the way back into the rosebushes! You are as clumsy as a newborn horse, that ball has completely disappeared. What a whack you gave it! Well, there is nothing for it. We will have to go and look for it together. Lord knows how long it will take, you’ve slowed down the whole game. ...Do hurry up, my dear girl!’’

This overloud exclamation was followed by some hushed whispering and a flurry of giggles, and then the rustling of shrubbery as the two ladies presumably scrambled their way back into the wilder and more private gardens beyond the croquet court.

Raffles raised an eyebrow. ‘It seems I may have jumped the gun in anticipating yours and Miss Clifton’s burgeoning engagement, Bunny. I am beginning to think that you might not be quite her type.’

‘What do you mean?

‘I mean, my dear chap,’ he said as he wriggled his arm behind me and wrapped it around my waist, pulling me in comfortably close, ‘that we now have a little more than only two or three minutes...’

**Author's Note:**

> I spent about two hours trying to understand the rules of croquet to write this, including watching official international tournament matches on youtube.
> 
> I still have no idea how you play croquet.
> 
> But I did learn about that "oops I hit your ball into the shrubbery" trick, which Victorian croquet players really did use. Although probably not in the official tournaments. One assumes.


End file.
